


maraschino

by Ceryna



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Whipped Cream, implied food kink?, more likely than you think, that's basically it, there's also fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24204073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceryna/pseuds/Ceryna
Summary: Rintarou does not blush.Until hedoes.Inspired bythis artby @bentomi7 on Twitter.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 9
Kudos: 182





	maraschino

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bentomi7 on twt!](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bentomi7+on+twt%21).



> i was going to take a rest day from writing... but blushy Suna would not leave me alone.
> 
> please take this.

Rintarou does not blush. 

That isn’t to say he’s never been embarrassed — he has, though those occasions are rare. It’s far more likely that _he’s_ the one embarrassing someone else. 

The feeling of embarrassment can be caused by words — spoken, misspoken, left unsaid — or actions. Words have never intimidated Rintarou. Gibes rest on the tip of his tongue in case anyone decides to bite, and he has no fear of vulgarity or humiliation. He’ll be able to laugh about it later, is his logic — and it has yet to fail him.

Actions, though, are a bit trickier. Embarrassment is often muddled with courage prior to taking an action, or entangled with regret over inaction. Either way, Rintarou is used to keeping those emotions off his face. 

Although staying unreadable while reading others’ intent is his specialty on and off the court, he still… _wavers_ more than he’d like. He wouldn’t call it indecision — he simply takes time to analyze the options presented to him, and then chooses whether to commit. 

Accepting Osamu’s confession was a cinch.

But tonight finds Rintarou sprawled across the futon in the living room of their apartment, skimming the movie selections while Osamu is grabbing dessert from the kitchen behind him. 

Tonight, when Osamu’s hand snags around the remote in Rintarou’s hand, powering off the TV and leaning back, drawing Rintarou’s gaze to him — and the canister of whipped cream clutched in his left hand.

Tonight, when Osamu shakes the canister like a bartender would a cocktail shaker, eyeing Rintarou as the corner of his mouth curls into a smirk.

Rintarou blinks once, twice. “Weren’t you gonna grab dessert?”

Osamu kneels on the futon. He places the bottle down by his left knee and grabs either side of Rintarou’s jaw, fingers cool as they run along the bone. His thumbs smooth over Rintarou’s cheeks as he leans in, in, in — and presses a lingering kiss to Rintarou’s lips. “Consider yerself grabbed,” he says, voice low with mischief.

_Oh._

Osamu’s lukewarm fingertips nudge up the hem of Rintarou’s sweatshirt. Rintarou leans his torso up off the couch, core muscles holding steady as Osamu skims the fabric to bunch it just below his armpits. Osamu surveys the expanse of bare skin as Rintarou settles into the cushions. He smooths callused fingertips over Rintarou’s pecs — ridges them over his abdomen before he finally leans back. 

A twist of his fingers uncaps the bottle of whipped cream.

_Pop._

Something feral glints in Osamu’s eyes, an intensity that Rintarou thinks should contradict the softness of his smile. It's a look that promises Rintarou will be eaten alive — savored slowly, piece by piece — and that he'll _enjoy_ it.

Osamu presses on the nozzle.

Rintarou tenses as chilled, white foam glazes over his stomach, tracing an even path over muscles and skin — 

A path that Osamu kneels down between Rintarou’s legs to destroy with artful, messy swipes of his tongue.

Crimson glimmers at the edge of Rintarou’s vision, a fierce blush radiating off his cheeks as damp heat sweeps over his abs. The warmth dances flames over his skin, severe enough for him to clap a hand over his mouth in the hopes the gust of air will put it out. 

The gesture makes Osamu chuckle, a huff of warm air ghosting over Rintarou’s stomach. “Yer red as maraschino cherries, Rin.”

“Those things’re too sweet,” Rintarou mutters around his burning face. He wills the embers to die down — but they don’t. How can they, when Osamu hooks his fingers around the waistband of Rintarou’s sweatpants, edging the soft grey cotton down past his bare hip bones.

Rintarou feels the lava enfold the backs of his ears and down his neck. _Fuck._

Osamu curls his tongue up, swiping creamy sugar over his lips. “We’ll get there,” he assures. 

Rintarou chokes out a laugh. He cards his fingers through Osamu’s hair, resigning himself to the fever, and knocks a pinky against the aluminum that brought upon his downfall with a grin.

“Save some for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story (^^)  
> comments help fuel my writing! i'd love to know your favorite line, what you liked about the story, or if you'd like to see more Osasuna from me! ^^ 
> 
> I'm on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Ceryna_writes)!


End file.
